They hold each other's gaze. There's something unspoken blooming in the air between them—curiosity, interest, heat—and neither of them tries to smother it.
Audrey clears her throat lightly, reaching into her hoodie pocket for her phone. "You got a number?"
Santana raises a brow. "You askin'?"
"I'm saying," Audrey replies, almost smiling. "You should give it to me before I walk away and you regret it."
That gets a full grin out of Santana. She pulls her phone out, fingers moving slow.
Audrey calls her number on the spot. Santana glances down at the screen. "Got you."
They don't say goodbye right away. Santana's phone slips back into her pocket, but she's still standing there, head tilted slightly, like she's trying to figure out what just happened.
Maya reappears suddenly, like the energy finally got too loud for her to ignore. She glances between them, lips pressed into a smirk.
"What?" Audrey says, already rolling her eyes.
"Nothing," Maya sings, backing up again. "Y'all good. I'm ready when you are."
Audrey watches Santana for a second longer, then gives a soft nod. "It was good seeing you."
"Same," Santana replies, voice low again. "Text me."
"I will."
Audrey turns back toward her sister, but not before catching the way Maya's grinning at her like she just witnessed her big sister's entire love life shift on its axis.
"You're smiling," Audrey says flatly.
Maya shrugs. "I'm minding my business."
"No you're not."
Maya starts walking toward the register. "She fine though. You need that."
Audrey shakes her head, but there's no real fire in her voice. A subtle blush creeps up her neck as she pushes the cart after her sister—her phone still warm in her pocket.
⸻
          THE GYM IS HALF-DARK, lit mostly by the pale glow leaking in from the streetlamp outside. A single overhead bulb flickers faintly in the back corner, but Santana doesn't bother turning on the full lights. She likes it this way—quiet, still, a little gritty. Everyone else is gone. Just her and the smell of iron, dust, and yesterday's sweat.
She sits on the edge of the bench in front of the mirror, shirt clinging to her back, black sweatpants hanging low on her hips. Her left hand rests on her knee, wrapped in gauze and tension, still tender if she moves it too fast. She flexes her fingers slowly, then winces when the dull ache flares up and reminds her that she's not invincible.
She could push through it. She's done worse with less. But tonight, she doesn't.
She hears Audrey's voice in her head again, soft but firm:
"Promise me."
She hadn't said it like a warning. More like a reminder.
Santana exhales, leans forward, and starts slowly unwrapping the tape from her hand. Her jaw ticks with the same frustration that's been following her for days. She needs to get another match soon—bills were coming back around—but still, she listens. Knowing that if she fought again too soon, she'd really be fucked up.
She tosses the balled-up wrap into the trash bin near the water station, grabs her phone, and sinks down onto the bench again. Muscles still twitching for movement. But her thoughts? They're already somewhere else.